


Died on a Wednesday

by apiphile, jar



Series: thursdayverse [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Blood, Cage Fights, Fights, Gen, M/M, Mob AU, Violence, actually written by jess, co-writing, graphic gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-11
Updated: 2010-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-09 09:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiphile/pseuds/apiphile, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jar/pseuds/jar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursdayverse Part 2: Bob backstory, how Bob met the Ways, was partnered with Frank. This part written by JAR, the series was co-authored.</p><p>This will not make sense if you haven't read Thursday Kids Like To Cause.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Died on a Wednesday

**Author's Note:**

> This part written by JAR.

Bob has been angry for a long time.

Bob's not great at doing... emotions. It's just not his thing. So he likes to think he kind of picked one and perfected it. Pissed off. _Angry_.

There's a long time this works fine. For a long time, he's just nothingness and anger. He goes to work in the morning, goes out with people he can sort of stand at night, sometimes he drinks and sometimes he doesn't, more often he fights (it's no big deal, he's the guy everyone wants at their back, it's just his thing), and then he goes home and gets up and does it over like fucking Groundhog Day. Nothingness and anger. He didn't count on this tripping him up, boiling up from under the surface and pouring out scalding hot, burning his boring little life to the ground.

He's finished work and he's at a bar by himself tonight. He's watching some shit on the TV and drinking, and the guy next to him keeps spilling his drink onto the counter. The guy's drunk. Bob doesn't realise how drunk until later. So he keeps spilling shit on the counter, and it's dripping off the rounded polished wooden edge of the bartop because there's so much spill it's leaking out of the fucking bar mats, and Bob's starting to get a bit fucking annoyed because he's watching some unimportant shit on TV (some shit, some shit he can never remember the name of, some irritating woman with ten feet of dark hair in some irritating fucking soap opera) and beer is just drip drip dripping into his lap.

So he tells the guy to stop wobbling around so much, to stay _the fuck_ still. Quietly. Calmly.

The guy looks at Bob with wide, wet eyes and nods, stunned looking. Bob knows he can be a fairly intimidating guy. The guy settles down, nose in his glass.

Thirty seconds later, the guy is shouting across the room at a woman who's turning away, trying to ignore him. She's all embarrassed-angry, closed off posture, arms and legs crossed and looking away. The guy windmills his arms and spills his drink again.

"Stop." Bob says. He remembers that he just said stop. Nothing else. He couldn't unclench his gritted his teeth enough to force more words out.

The guys turns to face him, face flushed and broken capillary red at his cheeks and pale and grey as the dead at his forehead and says through thick, alcoholic breath, "sorry, man." And he tips the rest of his drink down Bob's shirt. It's an accident. It really is.

Between grabbing the guy's collar and slamming his face into the bar and standing in the middle of room, his arms held behind his back by someone unseen, blood dripping into one of his eyes, Bob only remembers red. He's not sure if he laughed, looking down at the meat pancake in a suit, at the hamburger patty masquerading as a human face, shallow breathing bubbled blood from the corners of its mouth, but in that moment (never again) it struck him as fucking hilarious that that thing had once been a _human being_.

He remembers, though, that the last thing the guy said to him was "sorry, man."

_Sorry_, man.

In the car outside the bar, Bob asks if he's going to jail. The guy in the front passenger seat turns around and looks at him, head tilted back to stare through round glasses that are perched ridiculously on the end of his nose. "Nope. Do you want to?"

"No," Bob says, and at that point, he hadn't known that it was a real question. A real question he could have answered differently.

"Good, because I like you." The guy said, birdsnest hair flashing blue and red as a cop car screams past them, lights flickering through the tinted windows of the car.

That was how Bob met Mikey Way.

\---

So Bob met Mikey Way, got a new job that's not so different from how he's been spending his nights anyway, a new haircut, a new squeaky clean assault free record, a whole new tax bracket (the one where you don't actually pay tax) and didn't get any less angry. They tell him the guy in the bar died. Bob's fucking furious at that business suit wearing drunk fuck. How the fuck dare he. How _fucking_ dare he die.

\---

Mama Way runs the joint, but Bob takes his orders from Gerard. Gerard is next in line, heir to the throne, and Bob gradually realises that he has been brought home like a present for him. Mikeyway is the cat and Bob is the bird still flapping in his mouth, dropped at Gerard's feet as Mikey rubs at his legs. A real life tin soldier. They first time they meet, Gerard and Mikey exchange looks, and Gerard's very clearly says: what do you expect me to do with this, Mikey? It's okay though, Bob realises eventually that Gerard would never reject a gift from his brother.

"They broke into The Tuscany again," Ray says, shuffling paper. "You're telling Frank." Only Ray and Mikey say things like that to Gerard. Only they _tell_ him to do things.

"Don't be mad, Gee, Mama got some of the rent-a-cops on it," Mikey doesn't look up from picking his fingernails with a knife that's about the length of his forearm.

"I don't get mad, I get stabby," Gerard says, and steeples his fingers like a villain.

"Did you just quote Fat Tony?" Bob says, snapping his mouth shut straight afterwards, because _fuck_, don't question the boss, _newbie_, even if you think he might be quoting _The Simpsons_ and your ribs are hurting holding the jerking breaths of laughter in.

Gerard giggles in a completely cracked manner. Then Mikey laughs, and that's the most terrifying thing Bob's ever heard. Bob physically can't hold the laughter in any more and he might be just the tiniest bit hysterical, but when he unscrews his eyes, Gerard is smiling at him, and Bob feels good. Feels calmer.

He thinks he's going to like these guys.

\---

Bob throws up after his first cage match. First kill-- second, second fucking minced meat face on a businessman's body-- Bob throws up after his first fight, right there in front of everyone. It was an accident this time too. Sort of.

\---

Bob thinks he's going to like these guys, but then a little time passes and Gerard decides to let Bob loose outside the cages, decides he's ready to do work that might require the use of his brain. He meets the guy who Gerard has decided to partner him with.

He's got scabbed knuckles and scars and tattoos and he's pretty, fuck he's pretty.

Bob says, "hey, shortstuff."

The little guy stomps on his foot, and while Bob's still halfway through spitting out a loud "mother_fucker_," he spits right in Bob's face.

That's how Bob meets Frank.

He fucking hates him. Almost as much as he wants to fuck him.

\---

Frank is one of Gerard's favourite people, so Bob treads lightly.

Even when Frank is doing stupid ass shit like continuing his ongoing quest to get himself stabbed in the nearest soft fleshy part, which Frank would probably describe as "his ongoing attempt to make Mikey Way react like a normal human being", but Bob would argue that it's the same fucking thing. Suicidal and annoying.

Still, Bob doesn't let on when he notices Frank sneaking across the room over Mikey's shoulder. Maybe Mikey'll finally startle and kill the little fucker. Bob would laugh so hard. So he keeps his mouth shut.

Frank abruptly lunges forward, arms around Mikey's neck.

"Hi, Frank," Mikey says, quiet and utterly unfazed.

"Hi, Mikey," Frank says, hanging despondent on Mikey's back. He hooks his chin over Mikey's shoulder and pouts. "You suck."

Bob laughs at Frank. Frank pokes out his tongue.

\---

Thing is, the more blood that's on Bob's hands, the harder it is to get a grip.

 

\---

Gerard says, fuck these guys up, send a message. So Frank and Bob go and they fuck these idiot dealers up. These guys are young and deeply stupid and treading on the toes of people who are worse than anything they could imagine in their wildest fantasies.

Bob's found he can do his job perfectly, until he's got nothing to do with his hands and he has to watch Frank. Frank smacks the guy over the head with the heavy metal scales that are on the bench, the cord ripping out of the wall and arcing through the air. He throws them across the room as they guy's falling and is on him fists and teeth and knees.

Bob closes his eyes, but with his eyes closed, it's just sounds, sounds that could be fighting or fucking. Slap slap slap spatter fucking _moan_.

It really, really doesn't help.

Bob hunches in on himself, rounds his shoulders and clenches his fists by his sides. Doesn't put them in his pockets. Doesn't watch.

Iero is such a fucking freak.

\---

Bob stomach flops like a dying fish when he's around Frank.

To be fair, it's probably just all the gore that generally accompanies working with him.

"You are one sick fuck, Iero," becomes one of Bob's favourite phrases. It's been a couple of weeks since they've been partnered, and they've worked enough jobs that Bob's sure he's said that to Frank more than he's said hello. "You're such a fucking freak, Iero," Bob says, standing over Frank and watching him work (he can keep his eyes open now, he can keep a hold on himself and watch at the same time).

Frank looks up at him, blood on his face and none of it his own. Today they are doing a magic trick that Bob is only just learning the secrets behind: they are making people disappear.

"Why do you always say that?" Frank asks, a pleasant smile and a warning in the uncurling of his fists from his knife. It thumps quietly onto a still chest.

Bob shrugs.

"Because you're fuckin' sick, I guess," Bob says, dropping his cigarette under his foot and grinding it out with more force than necessary. Fucking Frank pisses him off, with his pretty face and his free, bloodstained, guiltless grin.

Frank launches himself at Bob, fists and teeth bared. Bob catches both his wrists and they smack into the wall with a solid thump that jolts Bob's shoulder hard enough he lets go of Frank's left wrist, wincing, and catches slick knuckles hard on his chin. "Fuck that!" Frank yells, wild and toothy, "you fucking liar." There's a scramble as Bob tries to grab Frank's wrist again, while Frank thrashes his whole body trying to get loose, buries his hand in the front of Bob's hair and pulls, hard. "And fucking call me _Frank_, _Bob_." Frank smacks Bob's head back into the plaster by his hair. "You fucking like me, Bob, and you fucking like what we do." Bob's frozen, can't do anything but gape and let himself be shaken for a minute. Frank's scratching and spitting like a cat, and Bob's brain finally unlocks enough for him to think: fuck this, and lets them both fall forward, putting all his weight on Frank. They smack to the ground, Frank landing hard on his back, gasp coming from his throat and absolutely no air, his lips right next to Bob's cheek, his fingers digging into Bob's shoulder hard enough Bob can feel the bruises coming.

"Shut. Up." Bob says.

Frank doesn't talk, simply because he's been winded hard enough he's still not even up to breathing yet.

Bob pins his wrists again properly while Frank hiccoughs useless breaths of nothing. Bob smiles.

"God, I've wanted to do this for a while."

Frank takes a choking, whining breath, too soon (finally) sounding like he's in pain, almost, not quite, filling his lungs shakily, his face blotchy with blood under and on the skin. Bob's stomach flips.

"I--"

"Fucking WHAT Iero?" Bob grits his teeth, lips peeled back, hands holding Frank's wrists. He barely stops himself from just headbutting Frank in his pretty, bloody mouth.

"I like you," Frank says. Leans up and bites at Bob's lips, shifts his arms, stretches his neck up at a painful looking angle, digs his ragged bitten short nails into Bob's hand, hard enough Bob's not even sure if they're still fighting.

"Like me back," and Frank kisses him and Bob wants to say, hey, hey, no that's not what I meant-- wanted to do this for a while-- except he's thinking, now, that maybe it was exactly what he meant.

His stomach flops around again, fish out of water. Momentarily all he can feel is the places where he and Frank are pressed together. Not his throbbing skull or his shoulders or Frank's fingers digging into his hands.

"You can't be serious," Bob says, and can feel his face red red redder, because it comes out so quietly.

"As serious as a fucking hard-on," Frank laughs into Bob's mouth and reminds him that their hips have been pressed together since they fell to the floor-- Bob wonders how long he's been hard, wonders when Frank noticed.

"Big, bad Bob 'I don't feel nothing' Bryar," Frank says, and grinds his dick into Bob's, his wrists into Bob's hands, his nails into Bob's skin, himself, all of him, painfully hard. "I never believed it for a second."

It's funny, because even Bob believed it.

"You're still a sick fuck, Frank," Bob says, believes it even more, because Frank wants _him_.

"You fucking love it." Frank says. "And you called me Frank."

Thing is, Bob does and he did. Bob kisses him to shut him up and blushes harder, tastes blood and feels Frank's ridiculous smile against his lips (it becomes a pattern).

\---

Slippery slippery hands.

\---

So sometimes Bob still says, "you're a sick fuck, Frank."

And Frank smiles at him and says, "you fucking love it, Bobert."

And Bob smiles, because it's true. They're both fucking freaks who hurt people for a living, and Bob _does_ love it.

The longer he works here, the more times he steps into the cages, the more time he spends with Frank, talking and fighting, fucking with the taste of someone else's blood still coppery in his mouth, the less angry he is. He is learning to love every dirty messy fucked up part of himself, every time he thinks about how much he loves every dirty messy fucked up part of Frank.

The exact moment Bob realises he loves his job is clear and abrupt, it's like Bob finally _gets_ it, like he's just figured out one plus one equals two. There's surprisingly little angst about it. (It probably helps that Frank's sucking his dick at the time, looking up though his lashes, ripped and fight scabbed knuckles sliding slowly over Bob's inner thigh, lips red and shiny).

\---

Frank grabs Mikey's dick.

Mikey doesn't flinch.

Frank screws his face up in brattish frustration, but takes an abrupt inspired left turn into lechery and whispers in Mikey's ear, "happy to see me, Mikeyway?"

"No, it's just a gun," Mikey says, blank faced, nose buried in his comic book.

"Fucking hell, one day, Mikey, one fuckin' day," Frank says.

"One day he'll fuckin' gut you, Frank," Bob says, and shakes his head, laughing.

"Don't worry about it," Frank says, "I'm never gonna win."

"Mmmhm," Mikey agrees, then, "they broke into The Tuscany again."

The Tuscany is one of the restaurants Frank's family runs. His family-family, not his Family. Though the Ways do have a stake. Frank's family and the Ways have been tangled together for years before Bob came around.

Frank swears at length.

Some assholes keep breaking in, over and over, and even the cops on the payroll haven't been able to do jack about it. Fucking rent-a-cops.

"Can we?" Frank asks, without much hope. He's asked before and it's always been 'no, we've got people on it.' This time though, Mikey says:

"Gerard said you're off the chain."

"About time," Frank says snaps, lips curled, and Mikey looks at him over his glasses blankly for a moment. "Sorry." Frank says, and ducks his head, contrite. "It's just, you know. Dad and all, they've been asking me. Just, tell Gee thanks."

Bob cracks his knuckles. He'll enjoy helping Frank out on this, it's been making Frank a little nuts.

\---

They're in the kitchen of The Tuscany when they catch up to him—several stake outs and about ten semi-public fucks in the car to kill the boredom later— the guy goes through the skylight and they go through the back door after him. It's four in the morning and there's darkness and strange shapes everywhere. Frank's a crouched silhouette on top of the bench, a gargoyle ready to fly from the side of a hotel.

"Here boy," Bob says, then actually whistles.

Frank giggles.

The guy makes a startled noise and stands up from under the bench, right at eye level with Frank. Frank snarls and takes him to the ground, metal cabinets and washers and cookers resonating noise, crashing metal thuds like rolling thunder fill up the room as they tussle.

Bob doesn't like not being able to see Frank, doesn't even bother going for the lights, just takes a few quick steps over so he's got Frank in his sights again, leans his hip against the bench at the end of the narrow isle of polished steel cupboards and cookers. It's a dead end. Frank's got the guy, and he has to go through Bob if he can shake Frank off.

Frank split his eyebrow open somehow, but he's got the guy on the ground. Their feet kick out thumping like crashing bass drums against cupboard doors, Frank's nails digging bleeding tracts into the guy's face. A little bit of pots and pans percussion, fists and floor and feet, heartbeats and heavy breath. Bob crosses his arms and just watches, listens.

Eventually, Frank loosens his grip to shake out his hands and crack his neck, and the guy crawls towards Bob, scrambles on adrenaline shaken hands and knees towards freedom.

"No," Bob says simply, plants his foot on the guy's face and shoves him back towards Frank, fingers squeaking on the floor, Bob's boot tread pushing into his forehead.

The guy pants, face down on the floor, head turned to one side. Frank puts a foot on the back of the guy's neck, the guy's visible eye wide and rolling upwards to stare wild and blank at Frank's face. Frank breathes for a second, probably thinking how to end this. Bob nods his head to the bench beside Frank. There's a knifeblock bristling with thick black handles. Frank licks his lips at Bob and reaches a hand out to grab one without looking. He takes his foot off the guy's back and crouches over him, spreading a tattooed hand over the guy's eye, not letting him see, not giving him the chance to start the struggle again. The flick of the knife across his throat is quick, the reflexive kicking out and hands scrabbling at nothing all far too late.

Frank puts his palms down flat in blood, leaving the knife and pushing himself up. He stalks over to Bob, still tense and full of the fight, and shoves Bob hard against the cabinet, metal digging into his lower back.

Bob puts up a hand to brush some blood off Frank's eyebrow, reaches out to stop it before it drips in his eyes, but Frank snaps his teeth towards Bob's hand, and Bob pulls it back sharply. Bob knows Frank is not kidding, doesn't do friendly nips.

Frank falls to his knees in graceless-graceful collapse and undoes Bob's belt, button, fly. Frank's lips are on him hard and fast so Bob doesn't try to be nice about it, digs his hands into Frank's hair as hard as Frank is digging his fingertips into Bob's thighs. Bob's soso close, pushing into Frank's mouth and of course, right then, Frank scrapes his teeth over Bob's dick none too gently. Bob is so glad he's got a hand in Frank's hair and pull him off forcefully, breathing hard. He pants down at Frank, wants to glare, but Frank's grinning up at him and he can't help grin back. Settles for tightening his hand in Frank's hair so far he's almost worried he's going to rip some out. Bob waits.

"Let me," Frank says, pulls forward so Bob actually does feel a few hairs snap off in his hand. Bob lets him, it's hard and fast and wet and Bob is coming pretty damn fast-- the lights click restlessly and then flood the kitchen with harsh fluorescent light. "Bob? Frank? Gerard needs—"

"Motherfucker!" Mikey Way yells, covers his eyes and spins around.

"YES! I FUCKIN' WIN!" Frank yells at Mikey's retreating back.

Frank's still got come on his lip when he smiles at Bob.

Bob laughs, already drying tacky damp messy everywhere. He looks down at Frank's sticky red handprint above his dick, mostly through pubic hair and one perfect finger print on his stomach above that.

\---

Thing is, the more blood that's on Bob's hands, the harder it is to get a grip. So he lets go.

He's happy.


End file.
